


Square one

by Anonymous



Series: Things of the Past [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, M/M, Miscommunication, Past Abuse, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: [Sequel to "He Remembers Nothing" and "Loyalty". Reading those will provide context for this]He knows what to do. There’s only one way that he’s sure to reset the Asset, turn him dormant. It is not something that he’s looking forward to, but he doesn’t care right now.The team is more important. Jack, Sofia, Noah, Owen are more important. If doing this means they walk free, unharmed, then that's good enough.“In exchange, for helping with the Asset,” Brock says, his voice surprisingly steady despite the haze in his head “You don’t pursue my team for past crimes.”
Relationships: Brock Rumlow/Original Male Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow
Series: Things of the Past [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/585385
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48
Collections: Anonymous





	Square one

**Author's Note:**

> CW: This ENTIRE FIC will be filled with non-con and miscommunication.  
> Due to Brock being an extremely unreliable narrator, that's not how the others are, it's his experience colouring his thoughts. 
> 
> Mandatory disclaimer: Assault is not okay, rape is not okay. Our prejudices can colour our perception of others and warp how we treat them.

“How much does he remember?” 

And the silence speaks so much. 

Furtive glances, resentful stances, Brock can taste the electric tension on the tip of his tongue. The words of the Captain and the Falcon wash over him. He picks out words from the susurration in his ears, his eyes track the movement of their lips. Things like ‘cannot’, ‘unethical’, ‘prison’, ‘Hydra’, ‘the Asset’, and then ‘team’. 

Brock forces his brain to put his thoughts together in one linear line. 

The Avengers cannot release him. 

It is unethical. 

...He will go to prison. 

...........because he was Hydra. 

..........But he has to help the Asset.. ........

...............The Avengers will watch him.. .....

........... Because the Asset is an Avenger......... 

.....Brock has to go to prison. ....

...................But he has to fix the Asset. 

.................And he can’t do that from the Raft. .......

It takes some time for his thoughts to settle into some semblance of understanding. His drug-addled brain manages to string them together into this: The Avengers need Brock to help settle the Asset. He can ask for something in return. 

He might as well do something to make it worthwhile. Right? After all, loyalty goes both ways. He’s done it so many times before, why should this be different? 

“Before I do this, I want a deal.” 

Brock stares the Captain in the eye, then the Falcon. 

He knows what to do. There’s only one way that he’s sure to reset the Asset, turn him dormant. It is not something that he’s looking forward to, but he doesn’t care right now. 

The team is more important. Jack, Sofia, Noah, Owen are more important. If doing this means they walk free, unharmed, then that's good enough. 

“In exchange, for helping with the Asset,” Brock says, his voice surprisingly steady despite the haze in his head “You don’t pursue my team for past crimes.” 

Are four criminals worth one person? Or rather, is one person worth of the pain wrought by four criminals? Jack got in too deep and like Brock, could never escape until his death. Sofia and Noah were born into a bad life, kidnapped, raised to be killers, then adopted by Hydra. Owen was a sweet young man, promised a better life but never got it. 

There’s hushed conversation. 

“Absolutely not!” the Captain says several times when the Falcon whispers in his ear. 

“You can’t be serious,” the Falcon replies when the Captain argues quietly. 

Is Bucky Barnes worth all the people his team killed? Is it worth it to let four highly trained criminals walk free? 

They bring in a tech expert to catalogue the number of crimes that the team has committed or instigated. Brock snorts at this. As if they can create an algorithm to determine the value of a person’s life. But he's not kidding himself, if there was one, his would be on clearance sale or in the bargain bin. Heck, it’d be out in the trash by noon. 

The discussion flows in and out of the room. Brock rides out the last of the painkillers and finds comfort in the ache of everything done to his body. _That_ , at least, is familiar. _That,_ he knows, is what he deserves. 

He counts the time in delivered meals because there are no windows and no clocks. One meal, two meals, three meals, Brock tires of broth, soups, and porridge. He sleeps, wakes, has the fourth meal, dozes some more, then the fifth meal. 

Then it’s Deputy Director Hill who comes to stare him in the eye. She’s accompanied by a gaggle of lawyers, Dr. Banner, and an assortment of agents. 

“These are the basic terms,” one of the lawyers says, showing Brock the contract, “You will agree to a spinal tracker. You will aid in the rehabilitation of the Asset. You will supply all information regarding Hydra. You will cooperate with all members of the Avengers. In return, you will be confined to SHIELD or the Tower, with access to basic needs and healthcare. Four named individuals will not be pursued for the crimes committed up to and including the incident known as Project Insight.” 

Brock skims the document quickly, all 383 pages of it. The gist of it is exactly as what they said. Sure, if he were more clear-headed, Brock could have asked for amendments that benefitted him more, but at this point, he’s one, maybe two steps away from the edge of the mortal coil. There is a limited amount of times you can put a plaything back together after all, and Brock’s pretty sure he’s very near to the end of that number. Part of him remembers very clearly that the Asset hates waiting. The longer he waits, the angrier he gets and it’s always Brock who pays for it in blood. It has been some time already. Brock needs to get this over with as soon as possible. He initials where necessary, and then signs his name with a flourish. 

It feels a little like signing his own death certificate. 

Strangely enough, he’s okay with that. 

* * *

“This is your last chance to pull out,” Stark says to Brock. Brock is standing in front of the room that houses the Asset. 

According to them, the Asset has been sedated for the better part of three days while Brock recuperates enough to take more punishment. 

Brock rolls his shoulders and loosens up his limbs, psyching himself up for what’s to come. 

“Why should I pull out if he won’t?” Brock mutters. Stark is startled into a laugh at his dark humour. 

“Wait, no seriously we shouldn’t-“ Stark rambles on about ethics and rules. 

Brock gives him a sideways glance, a little surprised that Stark has misgivings. As far as he knows, Stark is all for people getting their just desserts. This usually counts as just desserts for people like Brock Rumlow. After all, if he did horribad things to other people, he deserves to have horribad things done to him, right? 

“It’s alright, Stark, open the door.” Brock bounces in place, feeling his nerves start to jitter. If he doesn’t do this now, he won’t do it at all. Stark gives him one last considering look, then punches in the code. 

The door whooshes open like some kind of futuristic Star Trek shit – Brock snickers at the thought of Stark Trek – and closes behind him with an ominous click. 

The Asset’s strapped to a bed, his head lolling to one side as he dozes, a piece of tape where the IV in his arm used to be. 

“Mouse,” the Asset growls. Whatever sedatives the Avengers or SHIELD gave him, they’re wearing out fast. Even half lucid, he knows the sound of Brock’s footsteps, knows the way he walks. With the serum, it won't take long before he's completely lucid. 

Brock crosses the room quickly. He leans over the Asset, palms his half hard cock through the pants. The Asset turns his head and bares his teeth, growling. Brock takes a deep breath and slides his under the waistband of the Asset’s soft grey sweatpants. He eases them downwards, freeing the thick cock. The Asset is eagerly anticipating his reward – Brock’s punishment. 

Brock bends over the bed and opens his mouth wide. He slides his lips over the bulbous head, wetting it with his saliva. Tongue the slit, lave the underside, suck hard, then take it deeper. Repeat until balls deep. Brock knows what the Asset likes. He suppresses his gag reflex and swallows around the massive rod in his mouth. Brock works diligently to please the Asset. If Brock shows initiative, maybe the Asset will show mercy? 

Brock squashes the thought quickly, after more than a decade as the Asset’s plaything, he knows better – mercy is not for people like him. Brock pulls back at long last and then punches in the code for the restraints. They snap open. 

The Asset sits up slowly, rubbing his wrists. Brock takes one step back as the Asset slides his legs off the bed and gets to his feet a little unsteadily. Brock hesitates, trying to gauge what the Asset wants. Unfortunately, he takes too long. 

_**Pow!** _

One second Brock is upright, the next he’s face down on the floor, stars bursting in front of his eyes, his head awash with pain, and the taste of blood on his tongue. His head spins as he tries to reorient himself. 

Metal fingers grab his hair and yank backwards sharply, the angle making it hard for Brock to draw breath. Blood dribbles from his mouth, he must have cut his cheek on his teeth or something. He doesn’t resist or struggle, not wanting to challenge the Asset. The Asset hisses something in his ear, probably something degradatory, then slams Brock’s face into the floor. 

_It’s broken_ , Brock thinks even as the pain lances from his nose through his face. He can’t breathe. Blood gushes down his mouth and chin but the Asset doesn’t care. He yanks Brock upright by the hair, shaking him roughly until Brock manages to get his knees under him. 

The Asset shoves his hard cock into Brock’s mouth, then growls in satisfaction. It’s too thick, too deep. Brock can’t breathe through his nose and the Asset fucks his throat relentlessly, using Brock’s hair to control his movements. Brock’s vision greys out pretty quickly from the lack of oxygen. Just as Brock’s about to pass out, the Asset pulls back long enough for Brock to gasp in some air. 

The Asset slams his foot into Brock’s gut. There’s a snap and a sharp stabbing pain in Brock’s lower left side. Whatever air he got leaves in a whoosh. The second kick is accompanied by an even louder snap. He’s left curled up on his side, gasping for breath as quietly as he can. 

_He’s going to kill me this time_ , Brock thinks to himself. As far as he knows, the Asset hadn’t been ordered to keep him alive, and he’s probably angry for having to wait so long before being given a reward. Brock hopes his compliance will be enough for SHIELD to uphold their end of the bargain. If he doesn’t survive, they still have to let his teammates go, right? Right? 

He really hopes that’s true; Brock thinks. He’s not entirely sure that’s going to be true. They can’t penalize his team if Brock actually kicks the bucket, right? The paranoid part of him insists that SHIELD would absolutely do such a thing. Brock is going to have to stick around to make sure they don’t. A traitorous voice whispers that they could just do it anyway, and he wouldn’t know because he’s going to be imprisoned anyway. 

The Asset gazes down at him full of malicious glee, straddles him, hooks his fingers into the collar of Brock’s SHIELD issued shirt, and just rips it apart. He shoves at Brock until Brock’s on his front. Brock crosses his wrists behind his back automatically, the action practically muscle memory by now. 

“Mouse,” the Asset purrs as he wraps the strips around Brock’s wrists, lashing them together, deliberately making them extra tight for maximum discomfort. Even if he knows Brock won’t try to fight back or escape, this little additional torture seems to fill him with a sadistic pleasure. 

Brock’s dragged to the bed and bent over it. The Asset doesn’t even bother to remove Brock’s pants completely, only shoving them down to mid-thigh before forcing his way in roughly. 

Brock does not manage to stifle his yelp completely. ‘ _Oh shit_ ’ goes through his brain immediately. Eight months of being on the run from the Asset and the Avengers means he’s out of practice when it comes to keeping himself quiet. The Asset cuffs him on the head roughly, a warning blow that has Brock biting his lip savagely. 

The Asset slams his thick cock into Brock’s sore ass over and over again, fingers leaving dark bruises wherever they grip. Every thrust has Brock’s face rubbing across the sheets on the bed, leaving streaks of blood. He tries to arch his back and save his nose from the friction but his ribs scream in protest. 

Without warning, the Asset bends over Brock’s prone body and sinks his teeth into Brock’s shoulder. Skin and flesh give way immediately. It feels like a chunk has been taken out. Brock’s eyes water from the effort to stay silent, even as blood starts to ooze from the marks and pool on the bed. 

The Asset laps at the blood, then starts to nibble and suck on the spot just below it. He leaves a trail of hickeys from Brock’s shoulders up to around his neck, scattering them across his back as well, marking his property. 

The fucking slows to deep rolling motions instead of forceful thrusts. The Asset groans in satisfaction, the sight of a bloody and broken Brock seems to be a source of great amusement to him. He pulls Brock flush against his chest, not caring if the movement makes Brock feel like there are a dozen knives sinking into his lungs. 

The metal fingers curl around Brock’s throat, tightening slowly. Brock takes a quick breath but it’s not enough. The Asset keeps the pressure up until Brock’s about to pass out, then the Asset lets go just long enough for Brock to gasp, and chokes him again. 

Rinse. Repeat. 

Every time Brock gasps and tries to draw breath, the Asset smiles gleefully. 

Despite his best efforts to stay conscious, Brock loses chunks of time where he’s not entirely sure what happened. He’s only certain that time has passed based on the increasing cumulative amount of pain every time he’s conscious. He wakes up once with a cold edge across his back, digging into skin. Another time, he opens his eyes and his legs are hooked over the Asset’s shoulders. Then later, he wakes to find the Asset’s cock down his throat again. But this time, the Asset doesn’t pull back. Brock chokes, and chokes, and chokes, unable to do anything but look up at the sadistic satisfied smile. 

The last thing Brock remembers before blacking out completely is the burning in his lungs and the sensation of cum sliding down his throat. 

* * *

Consciousness returns slowly. Brock has to struggle to remember what happened. One eye seems to be gummed shut. It feels hot, swollen. Brock winces as he looks around with the good eye instead. 

Brock’s in a heap on the floor. The Asset is sprawled over the bed, still asleep. The presence of the Asset in the same room is a rare occurrence. Usually Brock is abandoned in whatever room was used, and has to drag himself – sometimes literally – to the medical ward. Brock tests the cloth around his wrists. They're loose enough for him to slip out and stagger to his feet. The motion causes blood and cum to ooze out of his sore hole and slowly trickle down the back of his thighs. 

_Eurrrgh_ _._ Brock grimaces. _Ew_ _ew_ _ew_ _. Disgusting, you’re disgusting. A disgusting whore._

He doesn’t have clothes, both shirt and pants were torn last night. The Asset doesn’t like it when Brock has clothes. He looks around and grabs the sheets that have fallen to the ground, wrapping half around his waist and hips, then throwing the rest over his shoulder like a half assed toga. 

Brock limps over to the door and runs his fingers along the frame, searching for something, anything. To his relief, a built in keypad lights up when his fingers graze a secret sensor. Brock squints at it from out of his good eye. 

Password password, what did Stark type yesterday? 

Brock wracks his memory and guesses at it, poking at the keypad and praying that the Asset doesn’t wake up while he’s making his getaway. He’s in no condition for another round and he’s praying that he’ll get enough downtime to recuperate a little before the next session. 

Red.

Okay so that wasn't it. Um.

What about..... ?

Red again. 

Fuck, Brock really hopes that this isn't one of those 'three tries and you're locked out' keypads.

Okay, okay. It was left, down, up, right, right, left, up, aaaaaand... middle?!

To his surprise and relief, the door slides open with a whoosh. Brock books it out of there like a half-blind one-winged bat out of hell, heading straight for medical, limping as fast as he can. He has to be honest and admit that is not very fast because every step seems to jolt his spine and light up another avenue of pain.

There’s no one in the medical wing. That suits him fine. Brock thinks to himself as he rummages through the cupboards for supplies. He doesn't really want strangers, or people who want him dead, to see him half dead. Who knows, they might just... finish the job. He gathers up bandages, tape, a suture kit, and a bottle of antiseptic spray. First thing’s first. Brock steels his nerves, places fingers on each side of his nose, takes a deep breath, and wrenches the cartilage back into place. 

Even in the relative privacy of the medical wing, Brock does _not_ dare to make a sound, biting his lip savagely to stop himself from crying out. 

_Fuck shit ugh_ , Brock rides the wave of pain like a seasoned surfer, letting it crash through him. _Fuck argh_. He hates doing this part but he knows it’s absolutely necessary. He already looks bad enough without adding a broken crooked nose to the mix. 

He shuffles to the shower. A hot shower will help loosen up his muscles, reduce the pain. He manages to get the water up to an acceptable temperature and then stands under the spray. Even though Brock hates doing it, he has no choice but to stick a finger in his own raw hole and try to scrape out the cum and blood. He has no intention of walking around oozing like a fountain of depravity all day. Brock washes himself as quickly as he can and gets out of the shower. 

Unfortunately for him, clothes are one of the things that didn’t pop up during his quick search. Brock eyes the dirty sheet, wondering if he should put it back on, but ultimately decides that he’s going to have to take it off eventually, so it doesn’t matter. 

The things that matter are the multitude of teeth marks, cuts, bruises, and injuries he sustained. Brock sprays everything with the antiseptic first, trying his best to get whatever the Asset carved into his back. The last thing he needs is an infection making everything worse. Then he goes about bandaging his wrists. The Asset had tied him tightly and every movement had scraped off layers of skin. He makes quick work of wrapping them up and taping the bandages in place. 

Next order of business: his ribs. It’s almost impossible to bind them properly by himself but Brock has no other choice. He wheezes as he tries to secure the stretchy bandage around his chest powering through by sheer force of will. This has the added benefit of compressing the cuts on his back. Brock feels a little pleased at the thought. Two birds, one stone! Efficiency! 

There are other cuts littering his arms, legs, chest, abs. The one from his brow to his hairline seems to be bleeding the most so he needs to fix that as soon as possible. Brock threads a needle and props a shiny bed pan up on a table to use as a mirror. He wipes away the blood quickly and starts to sew. 

Brock would go fast if he could, but everything hurts and he’s hungry. It takes him far too long to close the cut on his forehead. The other deep cut, the one that runs from high on his hip to his crotch also needs to be fixed. Brock’s fingers are trembling by the time he finishes that one. There’s still one more on the back of his thigh. Try as he might, Brock can’t get the needle in the right place. He writes that off as a lost cause and settles for wrapping it with bandages and weakly hoping for the best. By the time he’s done with cleaning up most of the damage, the bandages around his wrists have started to stain red again, but Brock can’t be bothered to change them. 

It’s crazy how he just woke up but he’s exhausted already, Brock thinks. Shouldn’t sleep be refreshing? Well, it’s not as if he can go and ask for food, or roam around the tower, right? He wants to sleep, but somehow, it doesn’t feel right to sleep _in_ the pristine white hospital bed while knowing he’s going to get it all dirty. That would be like putting trash on a shiny new mattress. Not to mention, Brock prefers sleeping in small enclosed spaces like small rooms. He knows it’s stupid because since when has four walls and a locked door kept the Asset out anyway? In fact, sleeping in the open is better because the Asset gets pissed if Brock makes it difficult. Brock’s supposed to be easily accessible, available wherever and whenever as entertainment. 

Decisions, decisions. What is the likelihood of the Asset bursting in here for more punishment? 

Pretty likely, Brock decides, and really not worth the effort of pain of finding a so called ‘safe’ location to sleep. 

Well, at least if he’s punished in the medical wing, Brock won’t have to crawl far to get first aid. He wheezes out a laugh at the thought. Hahaha, that would be really convenient, wouldn’t it? With that in mind, he wraps himself back in the dirty sheet and curls up on the bed. 

Despite the thrum of anxiety in his head, sleep overtakes him easily. 

* * *

Brock is yanked from his dreams by a loud bang and “HANDS IN THE AIR RUMLOW”. 

Out of habit, he flips out of the bed and crouches on the floor beside the bed, every muscle tensed and screaming in preparation to defend himself. He vaguely registers the sensation of scabs tearing open again and blood starting to flow. His lungs scream in pain when the movement jostle his broken ribs. Red blossoms under the bandages on his forearms immediately. 

Five, no, six SHIELD agents and Captain America are surrounding him. 

There are six guns aimed at his head and a very familiar shield brandished menacingly. 

What the fuck? 

Brock squints at them out of the one good eye, realizing belatedly he’s still naked. 

_Fuck_. 

He grabs the bloodied sheet and wraps it around himself in a hurry. Despite having lost a lot of blood in the past twenty-four hours, he still has enough to go completely red in the face. 

He’s never going to live this down. He knows these agents, having worked with them at one point or another. They’re all staring at him with varying degrees of disgust now that they know he willingly gets on his knees for the Asset. They see the damage, they know how helpless he is, that he's a _whore,_ that he’s _weak_. 

“Come quietly, Rumlow,” one of the agents says. If Brock’s not mistaken, his name is Mason. 

Brock opens his mouth to retort but all that comes out is a hoarse wheeze. His throat feels like it’s been set on fire. Ah, must have been all the choking. The Asset thinks that crushing Brock’s throat to the point of rendering his voice box inoperable is hilarious, mainly because Brock can’t give orders like that and sounds like a deflating balloon. Fortunately, Brock has been through this so many times that he’s got a workaround. He hastily knots his pilfered sheet around his waist, freeing up his hands to sign at them. 

“What?” Captain America asks, looking confused. 

Brock goes over the signs again in his head to make sure he remembers them correctly, and signs again, much slower so that he can be sure they’re accurate. He’s pretty sure Captain America knows _some_ sign language, given his history. 

“Always… quiet… when … comin - oh!” 

The captain goes bright red. Brock wheezes in laughter and regrets it immediately when his ribs scream in protest. _Worth it_ , he thinks, _to see Captain America scandalized._

Nevertheless, he shuffles forward, offering his wrists up for restraints. 

“Shouldn’t you get dressed first?” the captain asks. 

It sounds like a genuine question but Brock detects a hint of mockery. He’s being warned: lay off the snark or there won’t be clothes. Brock can’t leave the Tower. Whatever he gets is what he’ll have. If they decide to not give him anything, then he won’t have anything. Which, Brock realizes too little too late, is something he should have requested in his agreement. He asked for food and shelter. It didn’t say anything about clothes. 

Brock signs a tiny ‘sorry’, knots the sheet more securely around his waist, gathers up the excess fabric, then motions for Captain America to lead the way. 

The captain glares at him but says nothing, instead turning and walking out of the room. Brock has no choice but to follow. 

* * *

They stick him in an interrogation room. Brock wraps himself up as cozily as he can in the sheet and settles in to wait. People bustle in and out of the room. Some of them ask him questions. Some of them manhandle him a little, poking and prodding at his face. 

Brock signs his answers because he can't speak. It warrants an interpreter. Which turns out to be Hawkeye. Brock thought it might have been the Captain himself but it makes sense that the Star-Spangled man would be busy with his best friend right now. Brock and Hawkeye manage to communicate well enough even though Brock isn't that good at sign language and apparently has some regional differences. Brock manages to muddle through everything all the same. 

The pains and aches in his body keeps him awake, but makes it hard to process auditory input. The interval in which he comes up with answer increases bit by bit until Hawkeye declares a recess. 

“You aren’t gonna get any more out of him,” Hawkeye says to the person on the other side of the two-way mirror. 

They grudgingly show him to his cell. Brock shuffles along in his sheet to check out his new home. 

It's clean and dry. There's a bed pushed up against the wall, a screen that obscures the toilet and the sink from view. A table and a chair. There's a shelf as well, but it's empty. The escorts all but shove him into the room and lock the door behind him. All things considered, his new accommodations are pretty decent, even if they are sparse. Brock shuffles over to the bed, curls up in his sheet snuggly, and goes back to sleep. 

* * *

Consciousness is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it means he's still intact enough that he's able to rouse himself. On the other hand, everything hurts worse when he's awake. 

The moments just before Brock rouses fully are filled with aches and pains. He drags himself up to the land of wakefulness and regrets it for a second. Then he pushes himself upright. His wrist bandages are now a rusty brown colour and Brock bets the ones on his back are as well. He looks around. 

Still no clothes have been delivered. 

Brock burritos himself in his sheet, feeling a little apprehensive about the lack of clothing. This is probably some kind of warning. He had been naughty earlier. Now he’s paying for it. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should know better. He's in no position to be throwing around sarcastic words. At least with Hydra he had some modicum of respect afforded to him by virtue of being a commander of a team. Now he is just a prisoner, subject to the whims of his captors. 

With nothing better to do, he decides to wipe whatever skin he can wipe with a corner of the sheet and water from the tap. A hot shower would be nicer but apparently, he hasn’t earned that kind of privilege. He also hasn’t earned the privilege of food either, he thinks. Even though the document he signed had indicated he was supposed to be fed, Brock doesn’t recall if it specified _how often_ he was supposed to be fed. One meal a day is enough to keep a prisoner alive for months. Brock knows this from personal experience. 

Worse still, there’s no way to tell time, no window, no nothing. Brock has no idea what is going on, how long he’s been asleep, or even what day it is. 

He sits, dozes, sits some more, fills his grumbling stomach at the tap, then dozes some more to conserve his energy. 

What feels like hours pass. Brock drifts in and out of consciousness until the door chimes and then slides open. 

One agent steps in. He places a tray of food and a stack of clothes on the table. Brock jerks out of his light sleep and then regards the agent with wariness. It’s a blonde young man, one that Brock has seen around SHIELD before its fall, though Brock doesn’t recall much else about him. 

The agent looks at Brock with the same sort of disdain Brock sees on the faces of his Hydra superiors. The kind of expression that says Brock isn't worth shit, that he's expendable, that he’s useless. Brock bares his teeth at the agent. The blonde man leaves quickly. 

Brock waits till the door slides shut before getting up and getting dressed. Putting on the shirt and trousers is an ordeal that pulls on all his injuries. Brock is pretty sure that his back is bloody again. The cuts probably didn’t have enough time to scab properly. 

Not to mention, he can still feel blood and cum oozing out of him. Which, _eurgh_ , but there’s literally nothing he can do about it. He didn’t get any tampons after going on the run because he had figured he was free. Well, eight months of freedom was better than nothing, Brock thought wistfully. It was a relatively pleasant eight months, even if he did spend most of it on the run and staying in dingy, seedy motels. Brock rips a tiny corner off the sheet and sticks it in his pants to soak up whatever fluids are still coming out. 

It's okay. He's going to be... well, some measure of fine for someone who's locked up with a cruel master.... 

There's nothing else he can do. This is his life now. 

Brock gathers what remains of his nerves, sits down on the floor and savours the pasta.

It’s pretty fucking delicious. 


End file.
